How the Eagle Became a Weasel
by Lady Christina
Summary: How Peter came to be a Death Eater, when he was approached, and why he decided to go against everything he was ever taught. Companion peice to "Eagles May Soar".


**How the Eagle Became A Weasel**

_By Christina_

Peter Pettigrew had just gotten laid off of his latest job, stocking shelves at Flourish and Blotts. Although he had a diploma from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, it was near impossible to find work as of late, so he was reduced to stocking shelves. A Dark wizard, feared to rise above the horrible reign of Grindelwald, was rampaging through the magical community. His name-- Voldemort-- struck fear in the hearts of most. This was not without reason, as He was responsible for the slumping economy and the rising inflation, among other things, including the deaths of many. Thinking about this, Peter shuddered involuntarily.

It was January, just six months after he had left Hogwarts. The Christmas season had come and gone, with nothing eventful happening unless you count James' and Lily's wedding in November. The Potter's were safely hidden away in a remote corner of London; it was vital that they remain that way, because their lives were in constant jeopardy. 

Peter was going home, to the flat he shared in Diagon Alley above Eelyps Owl Emporium with his mum. Because of the lack of work, Peter had not been able to save enough to go off on his own. His mother was also old and frail, and his father had recently died, leaving her no one to turn to except her only son, Peter. He turned the corner, tramping through a snow drift. He was not in a good mood; the shelf-stocking position was his sixth job in as many months. The worse the economy became, the shorter his jobs seemed to hold; this last one was only for two and a half weeks. 

Peter recalled bitterly what had just happened: Mr. Blott had called him to his back office. Thinking that he was going to receive a raise, Peter hurried along the shelves to the placque which allowed him entrance to the office. 

"Quidditch Quandries," said Peter. The password was changed weekly to the book that had sold the most in the past week. The plaque immediatly opened, allowing him to gain entry to the office of Richard Blott. 

Once Peter entered, Blott motioned for him to sit, and took a chair for himself. Slowly, as though the words pained him, Blott began to speak.

"I know that you haven't been with us for long . . . Peter," he said, glancing at Peter's nameplate that sparkled gold in the light, "but I'm afraid that I must let you go." He continued on, not looking up, as if he was avoiding Peter's eyes. "You've done great work for us here, don't misunderstand me, but with the present conditions . . ."

Of course. The present conditions. Peter chanced a glance up at his boss--his former boss-- and saw that his expression was pained. _Good_, thought Peter. _It should be; I hope he loses sleep thinking about me and what he did. _Instead, Peter rose off of his chair and said:

"I understand sir, and I will not be back. Good day." With that, he stumbled towards the door, trying not to show how hurt he was. Peter rushed outside heading left towards his flat.

"Stupid people," said Peter, kicking a pile of snow. "Stupid degree, it can't get me anything. Stupid job, I didn't even like it anyway. Stupid life," said Peter, attacking all the snow near him. Soon, the air around him was covered in clumps of white snow, flying in every direction.

Suddenly, a voice from behind him said something: "it doesn't have to be like that Peter. I can help. **We** can help."

Peter spun around, frightened. He saw two figures cloaked in long black garments, with hoods thrown behind them. He recognized the men as alumni from Hogwarts: Lucious Malfoy and Ryan Lestrange. Instinctively, Peter's had drove into his pocket to retrieve his wand.

"There is no need for your wand, Peter," said Lucious, showing his empty hands, "we are not here to hurt you, we are here to help you." Lestrange also showed Peter his empty hands.

"H-how's t-th-tha-that?" asked Peter, stuttering. _Damn_, he thought, _I'm stuttering again. Why do I always do this, it shows my fear!_

Lestrange laughed at him. "Peter, dear, pet," he said, enunciating his last word, "my friends and I have a preposition to make to you. We want to help you. We know how hard it is to keep a job now, so we have come to make you an offer. You very well know that Voldemort" --Peter flinched at this-- "Scared of his name are you? No matter, you have reason to be, and we don't. The fact of the matter is, He has been gaining power, and He needs supporters."

"H-how does that concern me?" asked Peter, trying to look much braver then he felt.

"Well, Peter," said Lucious, "your name has been refereed to us as one who might be of use to our master. Our preposition is this: either you join us, and hold a position of great power when He takes over everything, or you don't, and die in the overtaking. The choice is up to you."

"I'll never join you, never ever!" said Peter, raising his voice slightly, and surprising himself. _Yelling at obvious Death Eaters? What are you thinking? They'll kill you, right here, right now!_

"I was afraid you would answer that. Fine. We will go, but at least think about what Voldemort could offer you-- more wealth and power then you could ever dream of. If this seems more interesting to you then dying-- which you most certainly will otherwise-- come and see me at the Malfoy Manor."

"The sooner the better," added Lestrange. "Master does not like to be kept waiting." That said, the two cloaked figures disapparated, leaving Peter alone again on the deserted street. No one walked along Diagon Alley at night alone; the attacks from Voldemort and his Death Eaters were too numerous to ignore.

Peter was obviously shocked, and ran the rest of the way home, finally collapsing on his door huffing. He took a moment to compose himself, and walked into his door. As soon as he walked in, his mother greeted him warmly.

"Peter, darling, there you are. I was worried when you didn't come home right away. You really must owl me when you decide to go out after work."

"Yes mum."

"Where were you anyway? Out with a nice girl perhaps? You know that I don't want to die without being a grandmother, and with the dangerous times I don't know what to do. My time ma y be coming very soon, you just never know. You **were** out with young girl, right?"

"Yes mum, I was." Peter felt horrible for lying to his own mother, but she was old and frail, and only became older after the death of his father; she wanted to see her son happy. He felt that it was the least he could do for her.

"Oh good Peter," she said, her stern expressions softening. "She was pretty, wasn't she? I imagine she was, to be able to go out with you."

"Yeah mum, very pretty, and nice too. We had loads of fun together."

"Aw, that's what I want to hear. I'm glad my Peter is getting on so well with everyone. I love you, you do know that, right?"

"Of course mum, you tell me every night."

"I know I do, but I want to make sure that you know. I don't know how much longer I will be able to tell you that."

"Don't talk like that mother, you're just fine. Maybe you should go to bed, okay?"

"That sounds good, help me get into bed, okay darling?"

"Of course mum." Peter rose from the crocheted chair that he had been sitting in, and crossed the room to his mother. He took her elbow, and slowly lead her towards the door to her room. It was rather small, by all standards; the flat only had four rooms, enough to live in, but not enough to live the way that Peter wanted to. His father had not left them a lot of money when he died, and Peter's multiple jobs-- and subsequent firings-- did not help matters. 

He helped his mother get into bed, and tucked the covers around her frail skeleton. There was no light coming from the room, because it was too expensive to continuously keep everything going. Just as Peter was nearing her doorway, his mother called out to him.

"Peter?"

Apprehensively, he answered. "Yes mother?"

"You're saving up money, right? You'll buy your mother a grand old house for her to live in soon, won't you?"

Peter paled, thinking of his unemployed status. However, it was not the time to reveal his latest misfortune to his mother. "Of course mum, I've almost just got enough to get that house in Flitwick."

"Oh good son. You make me so proud, you know that? With saving money for a house, and meeting young witches I just know that you will be a wonderful wizard. Goodnight my love."

"'Night mum," said Peter, still reeling from his mothers words. Almost everything he had told her that night was a lie, and he felt awful. Of course, his mother was living in bliss not knowing anything, and it would break her heart to know what was really happening. 

Peter sank into an armchair in the sitting room, and turned on the magic radio. He flipped channels for ten minutes, but couldn't concentrate on any one thing. Resignedly, he decided to go to bed.

Peter didn't sleep well that night; his was haunted in his dreams by men in long black cloaks offering him mounds of gold and all the power that he could ever imagine. In his dreams, he became even more powerful then Dumbledore, then the current Minister of Magic, Vlaidmer Verhoff. Then, his frail mother came, and snatched it all away from him, telling him that he was a liar, and a no good excuse for a human being. A dishonor to the family name, more so then his father was, she said.

The next morning, Peter got up very early, scrawled a note for his mother that said he was going out, grabbed his battered broomstick and headed towards the Malfoy Manor, determined to change his future. 

Disclaimer: All characters belong to JKR, and her publishers. This story is mine, and may not be reprinted or reproduced without my expressed written permission. 

Author's Note: As always, reviews are appreciated. If you enjoyed this, please read the companion piece, _Eagles May Soar_. Thanks!  



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